Head, Heart, Soul
by J Daisy
Summary: After Amber's death, things go from bad to worse: House is sick and he and Wilson aren't speaking. But at his lowest point, House is reunited with someone who should be gone. Maybe his visions are a trick of his mind... but maybe he can see someone real.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I am making no profit and do not intend any copyright infringement. _

_Author's Note: __Is it too late to hop on the post "Wilson's Heart" bandwagon? I hope not! Either way, big thank you to the infallible __**enigma731**__ for being a great beta and a great friend._

"_Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous - to poetry. But it also gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd."  
-Thomas Mann_

A week before Amber Volakis begins to die, she is pretending that the floor is her bed and that her boyfriend is a pillow, although the latter illusion is infinitely more pleasant than the former. The rug leaves obnoxious lint balls on her shirt which are made even more loathsome by the fact that Wilson calls them "fuzzies," and because Wilson has just come off a fifteen hour shift and was too exhausted to shower, he smells a little. But his arm is around her and he snores quietly and the lingering smell of antiseptic and pharmacy and chemotherapy bags is not that bad because it's _him_ – Wilson is not perfect, she is not perfect… but they make everything better for each other.

Five days before Amber Volakis begins to die, a man with the flu sneezes. Amber breathes.

Two hours before Amber Volakis begins to die, House ambles into a bar and orders a drink. The  
alcohol slides bitterly down his throat, gets pumped through his liver, and into his blood. He takes another sip and lets his day fade away.

One minute before Amber Volakis begins to die, a garbage truck driver checks her watch. Her weekend with the kids starts in half an hour – but she started her route forty minutes late.

She only gets eight days a month with them and the streets aren't too busy at this hour anyway. She presses her foot on the gas pedal and hopes that there aren't any police officers patrolling the streets.

Ten seconds before Amber Volakis begins to die, she sniffles and thinks about what House will have to do to make this up to her. It takes her five seconds to open up her prescription bottle and swallow another pill, one to turn to House, and three to smile at him as she imagines lying that he drunkenly spilled his soul.

One second and then everything _breaks_-

(But not entirely.)

_One Month Later_

Just outside the window of Chase and Cameron's apartment, the weather was somewhere in between pouring and drizzling. House listened to the irritating _pings_ that the rain made against the window and clenched his fist. It wasn't fair that three and a half weeks earlier, he had woken up vomiting with yellowed skin and white nails – all symptoms of kidney failure due to long term drug use. House wouldn't quit Vicodin, he and Wilson hadn't spoken in four weeks, and House didn't think he could stand the vapid comforts of Cuddy's home. Cuddy wouldn't let him go back to his own place, alone, on the precipice of end stage kidney disease and Foreman would lecture him, so he was sleeping on Chase and Cameron's couch by default.

So far, they had done all that he wanted: Left him the hell alone.

As per Cuddy's instructions, they also made sure he didn't die or take more than four thousand milligrams of Vicodin a day.

House hated this – this weakness, this being someone's chore. Weren't there ways around it?

"Go to rehab," Cuddy had said. "Call your best friend."

"Rehab can't regenerate muscles. My best friend hates me," House had responded flatly.

Cuddy had, of course, given him a sympathetic look and squeezed his shoulder; House had practically flinched away from her touch. Every sensation was fire, but every restraint – every time Wilson saw him in the hospital corridors and turned around, every time he looked the other way and pretended not to see – was a freezing wave that encrusted House, crushing everything and everyone near him until he was absolutely and utterly alone.

"Wilson doesn't hate you," Cuddy had whispered.

But House knew that he did.

Sitting up, House reached into his pocket and pulled out his bottle of Vicodin. He dry swallowed the two remaining pills; Chase and Cameron were very strict about adhering to Cuddy's rules, House had no car, and he didn't plan on setting foot in any public transportation vehicle for a long time. Tomorrow there would be more pills, although the stretch between now and then seemed to be forever.

House closed his eyes, sighed, and opened them-

There was a bright flash of blonde hair.

House's breath came in quick gasps –_inandoutandinandoutandinandoutandinandout_ – and he thrust his back against the back of the couch to make sure that if he passed out, it would not be on the floor. His hand gripped the arm of the couch, and his knuckles instantly turned white as his skin stretched and strained over them. House tried desperately to regain control of his breathing, but it was as if someone had pressed a gag against his mouth, slipped a noose around his throat, and pulled hard…

Just as suddenly as it began, it ended. Starting to breathe steadily now, House tried to rationalize – he'd practically memorized all of his excuses anyway: Chase and Cameron were both blondes. Either one of them could have invited a blonde friend over. And didn't Cameron have a brother? House may have even seen a reflection of some TV show in the mirror. He had been having scares like this for three weeks, and was simply constructing his own horror film inside his mind. That was it, unequivocally.

Who House thought he saw was dead, what he thought had happened was impossible, she couldn't be _real_: It could have been anything.

*

Cuddy visited him the next day, soaking wet and carrying three files, each as thick as her arms. "New patients?" House asked appraisingly as Cuddy surveyed him; he remained very conscious of the fact that he was looking worse each day. Small white crystals dusted his skin, which House knew were uremic frost. There were other symptoms that he still had the ability and dignity to hide – he hadn't mentioned it to anybody, but his stools had become bloody, and under his long sleeves and dark pants that hung on him like clothes on a skeleton, he was bruised all over. None of it bothered him, though; in fact, staying in Chase and Cameron's apartment was like taking a vacation from the world. This kidney problem was irrelevant, somehow – remnants of a life he no longer lived. Even as he continued to harm his body and experience the painful consequences of this, he felt an overwhelming disconnect with the wellbeing of his own physiology. House didn't care what it took to stop the pain as long as it was, in fact, stopped. Everything else was just an abstract – more so than it had ever been before.

"No, no new patients," Cuddy said, her eyes still glancing up and down House's body as she pushed the files into his arms. There was a loud crash of thunder and the lights flickered. "Lots of old ones. I don't expect you to come to work like this, but I thought that since you have so much time on your hands, you could take the opportunity to catch up on years of paperwork."

House gave the files back to her and yawned. He had become increasingly lethargic in the past weeks. "Don't think so."

There was another crack of thunder and the lights went out completely this time.

Cuddy didn't resist. "You look awful," she announced to him, glancing around the darkened room. "I'm taking you down to 35 milligrams a day."

"Great," House said in a low, growling voice, his calm demeanor evaporating as he felt pain suddenly slice through his leg. "Now instead of dying of kidney failure, I can enjoy the peaceful and dignified death of choking on my own vomit during withdrawal. I guess the last few days of 4,000 milligrams of Vicodin have just been a pleasant and exciting taste of what's to come – pardon the pun." House paused. "I need more drugs, not less."

There was a flash of lightning and Cuddy was briefly illuminated by it – the light seemed to be attracted to the facts House didn't want to see on her face: bags under her eyes, shadows where they shouldn't be under her cheekbones. She and House were both falling apart.

"Well, what do you expect me to _do_, House?" Cuddy said to him in a low, level voice, whispering even though they were all alone. "You're killing yourself." She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.

Angry as he was, House felt something in his chest give a little as there was another angry crack of thunder outside. But Cuddy took a step away without looking up to see him step closer. He felt the nerve cells in his leg coil into themselves, stinging and slashing each other, like a chain reaction of razors beneath his skin.

"You'll be fine," Cuddy stated in a calmer, steadier voice although she still sounded upset. "You'll barely be home alone anymore and even then, that's when I'll schedule your dialysis treatments. I'll give Chase and Cameron less hours, and I'll make sure that their shifts never overlap so that you don't even get the chance to die." She practically spit the last few words out, as though House didn't have the right to be angry or miserable or self-pitying or even the slightest bit realistic.

"Oh, come on!" House was speaking loudly now, and towering over Cuddy even as the pain swelled. "Kidney disease isn't untreatable. You did go to a couple classes occasionally when you were in medical school, right, or were you too busy fu-"

"That is _enough_, House!" Cuddy hissed. "I'm leaving. I'm done with playing these ridiculous games day after day with you. The dialysis hasn't made a damn difference, you know that. And in case you've forgotten, kidney disease _is_ incurable and without a transplant, death is imminent when the patient refuses to help himself even a little bit and cut back on the stuff that's making him ineligible for the only truly successful cure."

She turned on her heel and House was almost content to listen to the sound of her shoe scuffing the floor, almost content to hear the door slamming, almost content to never see her again, but it was only _almost_, but –

"Wait."

-But Cuddy was already gone.

House was alone. And yet: he was not.

There was a rattling sound coming from the kitchen. House froze where he was standing and almost swayed on his feet; his cane was all the way across the room. Another noise came from the kitchen, the room becoming impossibly darker, the thunder roaring outside, the unbridled pain building and building to a peak and a crash that wouldn't seem to come – resigned, House slid against the door and waited for it all to leave him behind.

*

An hour later, there were still noises coming from the kitchen. House was certain someone was in there, opening and closing drawers, going through the fridge, and he was in agony. His leg seemed to protest at every breath, phantom muscles writhing and twisting without relief: 40 milligrams was not enough.

House gripped the doorknob and attempted to pull himself up. He didn't know how he would walk a step without his cane but he couldn't imagine waiting another minute. Chase and Cameron had to have something he could take in their medicine cabinet – even if it was only a bottle of Cameron's Midol, House could take enough to at least knock him out so he could sleep off his misery.

One hand against the wall at all times, House took a few slow steps, – if he fell, he didn't think he would ever get up. Chase and Cameron's place was small, but it took fifteen minutes for House to get from the door to their living room. From there, the couch would be in sight. Just a few more… He could almost see it…

"Looking for this?"

And standing in front of him, holding his cane between them, and looking as alive as ever – was Amber Volakis.

For the thinnest slice of a second, House was totally eclipsed by sheer and utter relief. Amber was _there_, she was _ok_, of course Wilson should forgive him now and everything would go back to the way it was, everything _was_ the way it was…

And then – after that utter elation – the feeling faded.

The thing was, Amber was dead.

And dead people stay dead.

Amber's cheeks were pink, her eyes were bright and sparkling, she was simply vivid, even in the dark – and she couldn't possibly be dead when she looked that healthy. But at the same time, House knew that Amber couldn't possibly be alive.

Every muscle in his body was still, every nerve was dulled, it seemed that even his blood had ceased to flow as House quickly came to the disappointing realization.

"I'm hallucinating," he said. "I know that I'm hallucinating."

"For a month, you've been hallucinating?" Amber asked slowly, almost teasingly – she knew the answer, he did not.

"It's not unheard of," House responded quickly. His breaths were shallow, but his mind was as clear as ever. "I've been depressed, I haven't been sleeping, my body has been in withdrawal -"

Amber suddenly poked him in the chest with his cane, and House took a few steps back. "I don't think you're hallucinating," she said.

House grabbed the cane and leaned on it heavily. Every one of his cells had suddenly roared back to life, and a cold sweat broke out all over his body. "Fine then," House said. "Fine. What are you doing here, with me? You had a family, you had a boyfriend…"

"And yet you're keeping from them," Amber said coolly, pulling at the shimmering white hospital gown she was wearing. "Again. There are a lot of people I could visit post-mortemly, you know. Death hasn't made me omniscient."

House rolled his eyes. "My own hallucination is guilting me," he muttered. "You know – I know – that this conversation isn't real. I'm dreaming. I've passed out by the door."

House paused carefully for a moment, wincing and regarding Amber at the same time.

"And you're dead," he finished.

"No, no you're not. And yes, I am."

House had a sarcastic response on his tongue but just then, both he and Amber heard the lock in the door turn. He turned to Amber, both startled and satisfied at the same time.

"Whoever is there is about to find me unconscious," House said, leaning in. "And they'll take me to the hospital and give me my Vicodin eventually, and you will be gone."

The door opened, and approaching footsteps became audible. "That doesn't seem to be the case," Amber whispered to him, also leaning in. "I'm real, House - and I'm here for a reason."  
"House!" Chase's voice rang throughout the apartment. "Where are you?"

With Chase's footsteps becoming louder, House turned back to Amber quickly. "For what reason could you possibly--"

"There you are!" Chase said, pulling off his soaked jacket. "How long ago did the power go off?" he asked absentmindedly as he bent down and began rifling through a set of drawers for a flashlight.

House looked at Amber, looked at Chase, and froze. "Don't you see her?" he asked quietly, urgently.

"What?" Chase looked up. "See who?"

"See--" House turned back to Amber – but she was gone.

House nearly lost his breath again. "I meant, didn't you see her? Cameron. She said she was looking for you because she wanted to pick up dinner and didn't know what you would want."

"She would know what I would want," Chase replied cautiously as he pulled out a flashlight and flicked it on. "Who did you see?"

House didn't know how to respond. Chase was all right, but House couldn't trust him with this – he would wind up in a psychiatric hospital before he could say "wombat." Agitated, House said, "you heard me. She wants to try some new place." His voice was cold and harsh, even to his own ears. "I'll be in my room!" he called sarcastically as he hobbled to the couch, squinting.

Resigned, Chase rolled his eyes and wandered into the kitchen – no doubt about to report House to Cuddy.

Seated on the couch, House sighed and clutched his cane. His leg had begun throbbing again, and it wouldn't be long now before the pain became too much for him to handle while conscious.  
He closed his eyes and tried to nod off to sleep.

"I'm real," Amber had said. "I'm real."

The words buzzed in his mind until House fell asleep, wondering if he would think of anything else ever again.

*

Smoke and mirrors and nothing, nothing at all. House had rolled over on the couch to find he had been transported, somehow, to a blank world where nothing seemed to exist. How he had gotten there was not important, he could question it later, but even now as he looked around, that desperate curiosity, that insatiable need to discover the truth had evaporated. Here, it was not what mattered.

"Hello," said Amber: She was in this place too. And once again, House instinctively knew that her presence was not to be wondered about or asked about – it simply was.

House opened his mouth to reply but found that he had no mouth – he didn't even have a body.

Amber smiled at him. She looked exactly the same as she had in the apartment, right down to the drawstring of her hospital gown. "I need to tell you something," she told him. "Without interruptions. You will be able to speak when you need to."

House stared at her, as best he could.

"Isn't it ironic," Amber said in a cool, controlled voice. "That when you tried to kill yourself, I was the one you paged. And now that I'm actually dead – well, here you are."  
She leaned in to the place where House was, somehow. All at once, House felt omniscient and eternally trapped.

"Did you ever wonder if things got messed up somehow?" Amber asked him coldly. "Did you ever consider the idea that maybe you really did die all those months ago and what has happened since is your punishment? That just like how you couldn't rescue me four weeks ago, I couldn't rescue you six months ago? Is that what really happened?"

She looked directly at him and smiled. "Do you think it's possible that this is your afterlife? That you're going to be stuck here forever? That you'll never escape, that 'life' will never change?"

Her smile quirked. "Maybe this is what it's going to like from now on." She laughed. "Ok. You can talk now."

But House found that he had nothing, absolutely nothing, to say to her.

*

A volt of electricity woke House up: that was the only way to describe it. He gasped as he tried to breathe, but he couldn't force his lungs to inhale; they seemed to be only contracting endlessly inside him. His whole body was gripped in a panic. Hot and cold sensations flashed through him, and he alternately shivered and sweated. House tried to breathe, but it was like all the air was trapped in his throat, caught by some sinister filter. "Help," he tried to say, but the words weren't there: they had been swallowed up along the way. There was only a sick choking noise – he sounded like a dying man – before he lost control completely and fell off the couch.

Chase and Cameron came rushing into the room. "House!" Cameron yelled, a hint of fear in her voice. She was in front of him in an instant, kneeling and looking straight at him.  
"House," she said. "House. Look at me. Breathe. Look at me. Calm down."

Chase was next to him, rubbing his back in quick, firm circles. "The only way you're going to get through this is to fight it off, House," he said in a sure voice. "Come on."

Cameron tilted House's chin up. "Look at me. Look at me. Breathe."

But House's vision was narrowing, and soon Cameron was gone and Chase was gone and then he was alone in Amber's blank world – but just when it seemed like the end, his body shuddered  
painfully, and he somehow managed to inhale.

He was rasping, but he knew that for the moment, he would be ok. House glanced up to see Chase and Cameron exchange worried looks. "Oh, come on," he said, his voice withered and pathetic to his own ears. "You were expecting this."

Chase and Cameron sighed simultaneously. "I work in an ICU, she works in an ER – of course we were somewhat prepared," Chase said.

"And panic attacks aren't a sign of weakness, House," Cameron added in a more comforting voice. "Given the way things are going in your life right now, it would practically be unusual if you didn't have them. Plus, given that panic is a symptom of Vicodin withdraw--"

"Oh, come off it," House interrupted harshly; Cameron looked stricken. "That wasn't a panic attack. Fluid is collecting around my lungs; they're inflamed. Of course," he hiccupped, but began speaking again. "Of course I'm having trouble breathing."

Chase looked grimly at House. "Your breath smells like ammonia," he said.

Cameron nodded. "I noticed that too. And House, if you're right – which I don't think you are, by the way, because kidney failure really isn't associated with breathing problems like the ones you just experienced, it's mostly wheezing – then it still means that you're getting worse."

Although House was crouched on the floor of his former employees' apartment, and more or less at their mercy, he was far enough removed from what his life used to be like and far enough removed from the episode he had just had to relax a little. But even as his shoulders began to sag, House was once again seized by sickness – without warning, he leaned forward and threw up on Cameron.

Chase immedietly began patting House's back again to prevent yet another problem, but it was superfluous; House knew that he was done. "Good thing you're wearing pajamas," House said.  
But Cameron and Chase weren't laughing.

"That's blood," Cameron said, looking only at Chase.

"I know," he responded quietly.

For a brief moment, it was though House wasn't there – he wasn't at all included in the silent conversation between Chase and Cameron and even though they were only looking at each other, House couldn't ignore the strong feeling that he was intruding on something very private and very tender between the two of them. At times, it was difficult for House to remember that they were together, that they were a couple, and had been for over a year.

"We're going to the hospital," Chase said firmly, standing and pulling House up with him. "Come on."

"I'm just going to change really quickly," Cameron told them, hurrying into the bedroom.

House glanced at Chase, who had been watching Cameron go. "The hospital can't do anything but monitor me better than you can. The dialysis isn't working. I'm not going to get a transplant," House said.

"I know," Chase murmured, keeping his eyes trained to the closed door. "I know that."


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I am making no profit and do not intend any copyright infringement. _

_Author's Note: __Big thanks again to enigma 731 for beta-ing._

_"...this new idea of cure instead of punishment, so humane in seeming, had in fact deprived the criminal of all rights and by taking away the name Punishment made the thing infinite."  
-C.S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength, The Space Odyssey, Book Three_

House didn't know exactly how it had happened, but the only people in the Emergency Room that night were him and Amber. He hadn't been surprised to see her; he had almost been expecting her. If he really was hallucinating, then she would be around whenever he wanted to speak to her. If she was truly haunting him, as ludicrous as that idea was, then she only had a short amount of time left in which to do so – the clock was ticking, absolutely nobody would believe him in this state, so how could she _not_ seize this opportunity by its hairs?

Their chat was idle, made up of tired pleasantries. "Why should I ask you how you're doing?" House had asked Amber. "You're dead. You should feel great."

Amber laughed almost callously. "You should ask me because how I'm feeling is how you're going to be feeling soon enough. It would be preliminary research."

Now, House turned to her with a worried feeling in his gut. "I've been thinking about what you said earlier. About how the past few months have been some sort of punishment."

"And?"

"And it's not like you were some angel of virtue either. I called you Cutthroat Bitch for a reason: You were horrible, you sabotaged a whole number of people's chances at getting the job, and you impersonated a dead man to mess with Thirteen. And all that was just in the few months I knew you."

In front of his eyes, Amber's clothes pigmented from the ridiculously pristine white garment she had been wearing to the normal clothes she typically wore – dark, professional pants, a clean shirt, maybe a blazer to look smart, maybe some jewelry to look fun. She smirked at him. "That's right," she whispered, leaning in. "And I was much, much nastier before we met."

"Amber, I--"

And then, a voice that was so wonderfully familiar it was cruel: "Amber, _what_?"

It was Wilson, emerging out of the saturated white haze that the rest of the Emergency Room had blended into. Seeing and hearing him was almost more of a shock than seeing and hearing Amber, but the relief that Wilson was speaking to him completely overwhelmed any feeling he might have had with a dead woman. For a second, it didn't matter that all _wasn't_ forgiven, that Wilson still hated him. Wilson was standing there, acknowledging him. Feeling guilty at the thought, House realized immediately that this reality was infinitely more precious than the illusion of Amber.

"House?" Wilson asked quietly. "Were you saying something about Amber? House?"

Beside him, Amber froze – she seemed only able to look at Wilson.

If Amber was a hallucination, she could be controlled. House could take medicine; he could do something about her. If Amber was a ghost, then he was powerless. But there were no doubts about Wilson. House knew with utmost certainty that Wilson was hurt and angry. And those feelings were well deserved. House had taken so much from his friend – at that moment, he knew he had to do right by him, as he had been trying to do for a month.

"No."

Something unrecognizable flickered in Wilson's eyes, but he didn't move. Instead, he said, "I'm sorry, I guess I misheard you."

"Yeah." House leaned forward but felt pulled back. He realized that he was attached to an I.V. pole, even though he had no recollection of that happening.

Wilson noticed House's confusion. "Chase said you were really out of it when the nurse hooked you up."

House rolled his eyes angrily. "Chase said that? Did he ask you to come? Is that why you're here?"

Wilson recoiled immediately; his infinite capacity to be hurt continued to amaze House. "Chase told me that as I was walking into the Emergency Room to find you – he didn't tell me you where you were, I heard it from a nurse. House, I'm here because you're my best friend and because last month you nearly died… and not even for me, but for my girlfriend. I mean--"

"Can't you take a hint?" House sneered at him. "I haven't called you back. I didn't do that sitting shiva thing with you. Are you so desperate that you want to be friends with someone who hates you?"

Wilson looked stung, but resolute. "Cut it out, House. We both know that you don't hate me."

House opened his mouth to respond, but Chase and an older, somewhat curvy nurse walked in suddenly, ending the conversation. "Sorry to interrupt," Chase said, looking surprised at his audience. "House, you're being admitted and we have to run a few tests." Chase walked over to the head of the bed and began to roll House out. The nurse took the foot of the bed.

"By the way, Mildred," Chase said, addressing the nurse, "we're going to the G2 Unit, Room 209."

When they were almost out of the room, Wilson winked at Chase gratefully – an easy battle in a terrible war.

-*-

House knew he was in trouble by the way Cuddy walked into his hospital room. Her steps were slow and deliberate, her cheeks were flushed, and although her hair was tied back, frizzy curls framed her face. Judging by their earlier fight, House was surprised that she was even there.

"Your doctors lied to me," House said immediately as Cuddy sat at the foot of his bed and stared at the floor, looking thoroughly exhausted.

"They probably did," Cuddy responded flatly.

"Chase said it would just be a few tests, but they took four hours."

Cuddy turned to face him and sighed. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience," she said and then, inexplicably, she began to tear up.

"Well, it's not that big a deal--"

"You're dying."

House did not recoil – this was old news to him. "Oh stop whining, if my kidneys are really so bad I'll switch up my medication or get a masseuse or something."

"Why can't this be one of those things that you just understand immediately? You're _dying_, House. You have congestive heart failure."

House was still… unperturbed. "That's not an uncommon side effect of kidney failure," he said.

Cuddy looked suddenly infuriated. "Oh, so because it's happened before, it's okay?! Is that how it works in your world? Let me tell you how it works in the real world, House – most of the time, there's no magical diagnosis that gets made at the last second. People just get cancer or they have high cholesterol or--"

"Or a bus flips over and lands on them?"

"Yes! And then they _die_, House! And you're going to be just like them. And believe me, dying in a boring and usual way doesn't make it any less tragic. Just look at Wilson. You've been gone for the month he needs you the most and now, you've probably lost any chance you had to even begin to make it up to him. Not because what you did is so irredeemable – nothing is irredeemable with Wilson – but because you were too selfish to deal with his grief!"

Cuddy lowered her voice but continued to speak. "Knowing what's wrong with you doesn't mean there's a cure. House, I don't know if it was the ketamine or trauma from the car crash or what, but kidney failure is kidney failure and congestive heart failure is congestive heart failure. I don't know how the latter advanced so quickly, but there's nothing anyone can do anymore."

Neither of them said anything after that. The only noises in the room was the quiet, intermediate beeps of the machines House was hooked up to and Cuddy sniffling.

"Are you done now?" House asked quietly.

"Yes. I'm sorry." Cuddy wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "You shouldn't have found out this way."

House's eyes flickered to the window, effectively forgiving Cuddy. The two sat in silence, House staring into the dark night and Cuddy still unable to control her crying. When Cuddy finally left, the sun was already rising – House watched as the bright colors bled into the sky. He wondered how many more days he would get the opportunity to see this. He wondered how long it would be before he could get back on the bus.

-*-

News of his impending death was followed by a seemingly endless flow of paperwork. House had had to plan his treatment for a possible pneumonia, what he wanted to be done if his heart stopped or if he needed artificial nutrition or intravenous hydration. He signed his Do Not Resuscitate order.

"There are so many ways someone can die," Cameron said to him as she made sure that he actually completed his forms. "But there's only one way for someone's life to start."

"It's not exactly an argument for Darwin," House agreed. He handed some papers in a blue folder to her.

Cameron nodded and tucked the folder under her arm but instead of leaving, she lingered at his bedside.

"Anything else?" House asked, feeling somewhat annoyed.

Cameron sighed and, probably subconsciously, placed her hand on her hip. "Aren't you ever going to let Wilson see you?"

House rolled his eyes at her. "No. Bye."

Cameron didn't leave. "Even if you don't want to see him," she said quietly, not looking him in the eye. "He's the one that's going to live the rest of his life without his best friend. What would be so terrible about seeing him just a few times? When my husband died-"

"Oh, come _on_!"

"—When my husband died," Cameron continued. "Well, when he was dying, he didn't let me or his best friend get too close to him for those last days. He had been sick for so long, but it got worse so suddenly. There was just… an endless amount of things that we wanted to say – and now he's gone and he's at peace but knowing that he never got to hear those things will never, ever be okay. Don't do that to Wilson, House. He deserves better."

She left the room quietly, and House was left seething in the silence she left behind. Nobody, absolutely nobody, seemed to understand that Wilson deserved better – and by staying out of his life, House was ensuring that Wilson actually _recieved_ better. Wilson was functional with Amber; he had catered so little to other people's unnecessary needs when they had been together. Without her, House was sure that Wilson would "relapse" and lean on his most reliable enabler – unless House made sure that such a situation was impossible. He couldn't _not_ be needy... but he could be gone.

On the bus, Amber had spoken the truth when she said that House deserved to be hated by Wilson. Of course Wilson deserved better, but if House was around, the same cycle would be repeated over and over again. House hadn't planned this, and it would have triggered a horrified response but he knew it in his head and in his heart: Dying was the single most effective, irreversible way to be cut out of someone's life.

-*-

"You're wrong," House told Amber one day. She had become his most frequent visitor during the two weeks he had been in the hospital, despite the barrage of doctors and nurses that disrupted him every hour. House had actually become appreciative of her company – it was refreshing to have a companion who didn't offer advice on his deathbed.

"Am I?" Amber asked indifferently, studying her nails. "How so?"

"I'm not dead. This isn't my afterlife. I'm still dying."

"But maybe you deserve to be 'dying' forever. That would be a fitting punishment – you're always waiting for something terrible to happen, but you don't know when or how awful it's going to be."

"As a matter of fact, I do know how 'awful' it's going to be," House reminded her. "I've been there are couple times before."

Amber put her hands in her lap and looked at House in a pitying sort of way. "I'm not going to save you this time, House," she said in a low voice. She pushed her chair back, stood up, and left the room.

It was the first time she had done such a thing.

House closed his eyes and beneath his skin, beneath his ribs, beneath the organized tangle of blood vessels, his heart began to slow.

He woke up on the bus.


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I am not making any profit and I do not intend any copyright infringement._

_Author's Note: My apologies to anyone who read the last chapter and noticed there were breaks between "scenes"; I noticed the problem after I published it but it has been fixed. I would like to thank everyone who has read or reviewed this story. I was nervous about this sort of plot and knowing that people are reading and reviewing is a wonderful feeling. And, for the third time, big thanks to engima731 for beta-ing!  
_

_"My life closed twice before its close;  
It yet remains to see  
If Immortality unveil  
A third event to me,  
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,  
As these that twice befell.  
Parting is all we know of heaven,  
And all we need of hell."  
-Emily Dickinson_

The first year is the hardest.

That's what everyone says when a loved one dies. "Once you've been through all the landmarks," they promise. "Once you've experienced the first Thanksgiving without them and the first birthday without them and the first Memorial Day and the first day it snows and all the other firsts… after a year without them, the worst of the punches will be over."

This wasn't Wilson's first Tuesday without them – without _her_ – but every day felt like the first anyway. His life had been divvied up into three parts – before Amber, when he was with Amber, and after Amber. Everything had changed now, every atom was devastating, but at the same time, it felt like everything was indifferent – a bored spectator to at truly tragic event. Even the office looked the same, and sitting behind his desk, Wilson realized that sometimes, monotony could be a comfort instead of a cause of frustration.

He thought of House's office and his blood on the carpet.

There are no adages when a best friend ignores you.

Wilson rapped his fingers on the glass cover of his desk and imagined the thousands of different things that Amber's death could have led to – none of them involved House lying in a hospital bed, running out of breaths. It was a testament to the fact that things had spiraled so far out of control after Amber's death that Wilson also mourned the alternate course his grief had taken. It was clichéd, but it was true: _None_ of this was fair.

As if on cue, somebody knocked on his door. "Come in!" Wilson called, feeling very tired all of the sudden.

The door swung open and Cuddy walked in. "It's me," she said, unnecessarily. She looked worse than Wilson had ever seen her. There were dark circles under her eyes, her hair was knotty, and she was crying.

Wilson understood what had happened in an instant.

"Wilson, I'm so--" Cuddy seemed to be choking on something. "I'm so sorry," she managed as Wilson shot of his chair, rushing out the door.

"He slipped into a coma," Cuddy explained as she and Wilson hurried down the hallway. He was unable to look at her, unable to think straight. His heart seemed to be racing and slowing down at the same time, and he was sure that someone had poked holes through his lungs. It felt like someone had set his shoes on fire and dropped ice cubes down his shirt. Everything was wrong – everything was broken…

Cuddy and Wilson raced up the stairs, forgoing the slow G-wing elevators, but when they reached the second floor, Cuddy stopped halfway down the hallway.

Wilson paused and turned around to look at her questioningly.

"He… he doesn't have much time left," Cuddy whispered.

The unit was a rushing whir around them, but that didn't matter – Wilson was a rock in a waterfall. Nothing mattered except House; all he could think about, all he could hear or see or sense was House. Cuddy should have been inaudible but she wasn't. She was talking about House and she might as well have been shouting into a microphone.

Wilson nodded at her and leaving Cuddy behind, headed into House's room.

House was… present. That was the best that could be said about him. He was lying still and lifeless on his hospital bed, IV lines and fat tubes and gas masks snaked on his body like some deceiving restraint. His face was even more sallow than it had been two weeks earlier and because he was wearing a short-sleeved hospital dress, the dark bruises that House had so diligently worked to hide were visible. His skin clung to his bones but it seemed as though everything – his very vitality - was sliding away from him.

Wilson looked at House's head and wondered if there was anything left there.

"Hi," Wilson said quietly. "I'm with you now."

A warm breeze flitted through the room. The windows were closed.

-*-

Their lights were on, a few of the windows were cracked open, and despite it being past midnight, it seemed to Foreman that Chase and Cameron were, in fact, still awake. He breathed a sigh of relief. The new team was still new and Foreman knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that none of them were as ballsy as the old team proved to be when it was needed. Taub, Kutner, and Thirteen were smart and they were all good doctors and they did make brave medical decisions – but what it came down to was, they simply did not care as much about House as he, Chase, and Cameron did.

Without a trace of guilt, Foreman knocked on the door.

"Come in!" Chase called out clearly. "Door's unlocked!"

Foreman stepped inside and was not surprised to find Chase and Cameron curled up next to each other – practically curled into each other – on the sofa. "We knew it would be you," Cameron told Foreman.

"Yeah," Foreman said and sat on the edge of a straight backed chair. He was alert and focused, filled with calm confidence – so unlike the self assurance that seemed impossible to contain or control, that bubbled up at every opportunity. "I think I know why House is sick."

"So do we," Cameron said grimly. "And so does House's doctor - Cuddy knows as well as we do that the kidney failure caused the congestive heart failure. What else could possibly be wrong with him?"

"What I'm thinking is, what if the congestive heart failure isn't congestive heart failure?"

Chase frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

"Less than two months ago, House overdosed on physostigmine. He went into cardiac arrest."

"Yes…"

"And then he was given atropine to treat the cardiac arrest. Atropine and physostigmine are incompatible with each other and when atropine doesn't work right, atrial fibrillation can occur, and it can last. Cameron, you remember how House was that night in the E.R., he didn't cooperate and he only allowed a few basic tests."

Cameron got up, walked across the room to the kitchen, and poured out a cup of coffee. "So you're saying that the congestive heart failure was an incorrect diagnosis?" she asked as she handed the mug to Foreman.

Foreman accepted the drink gratefully. "What I'm saying is that Cuddy has had limited experience practicing medicine for a while now and that she based her diagnosis off a small set of data. Any one of us could have made that mistake given so little information."

"You know, you could be right," Chase said after considering it for a moment. "I looked at some of House's test results and they do somewhat support what you've said. But either way," Chase paused for a minute. "Either way," he said quietly, "House is already in a coma. He's so far gone."

Cameron, still standing, crossed her arms. "I think we should give Foreman's idea a shot," she said firmly. "If Cuddy's original diagnosis was right, then House is exactly where he was before – nobody has lost a thing. If you're right, Foreman, then House still has to contend with kidney failure, and Wilson will get one more chance to talk to his best friend." She looked at Chase. "What do you say?"

Chase's gaze flickered from Cameron to Foreman, and then back to Cameron. "Ok," he decided. "If it was any other patient, House would do the same thing." He stood up, and so did Foreman. "I guess we're giving him one more shot," he said, and they stepped out the door together.

-*-

The slow, awkward notes of 'Silent Night' greeted Chase, Cameron, and Foreman as they walked to House's room at the end of the long hallway. Finding Cuddy hadn't been difficult – she was sitting on one of the dark wooden benches outside the hospital. In the glowing orange light from the sunrise, she had listened to Foreman's idea with tired ears and watched them leave to start her approved treatment with tired eyes. Convincing her hadn't been difficult at all, and it actually left the team feeling disturbed – as though they were walking armed into a battlefield that had already been cleared of its debris.

Now they walked quietly, listening only to the out-of-season song that was clearly being played by hands unfamiliar to a piano. "I think one of the nurses is trying to exact revenge on House," Foreman muttered.

But when they stepped into House's room they saw the melody was not courtesy of some scheming hospital worker. Instead, it was Wilson sitting at the foot of House's bed, his dark head bowed over a brightly colored keyboard that wore a 'Fisher Price' label and only had a few keys. He looked up as he heard the three enter the room.

"I got one of the nurses to bring it up from Pediatrics for me," he explained in lieu of a greeting. "House… likes piano. I wanted him to hear some." He noticed the I.V. bag that Cameron was holding in her arms like a baby. "What's that for?" he asked, too tired and too sad to bother with any other emotion.

"It's warfarin," Chase told him.

Wilson frowned, crows' feet sinking deeper into his face. "Why are you giving him an anticoagulant?"

"We think that House has been experiencing atrial fibrillation," Foreman said as Cameron hooked up the I.V. bag.

"Why would you think that?"

"House's test results were inconclusive," Chase said, watching as the I.V. began to drip into House's body. "This could explain things."

Wilson nodded, not really looking up. "Do you think…" he began, but then he sighed and shook his head. "Do you think this is what he wants? To continue like this?"

Foreman, Chase, and Cameron exchanged glances. "Wilson," Cameron said gently.

"I mean, he's been here before," Wilson cut in loudly. "How many times in the past five years has he had a near death experience – and come back exactly the same as he was before? House doesn't have… revelations about life. He doesn't come back and try and make things better or change himself or help himself. He's just – himself again."

Chase sat down on the bed next to Wilson. "Do you want House to be someone different?" he asked, looking directly at Wilson but not in an intimidating or angry way – there was only understanding.

"No," Wilson said. "Not at all. But he's not happy– and I think that I've just had a taste of that since Amber… I don't want to be happy at his cost." He buried his face in his hands and looked utterly feeble – a grown man reduced to something so little and so helpless.

Cameron sat on the other side of Wilson and rubbed his back. "It's ok, it's ok," she soothed quietly as Foreman took a seat next to Cameron, carefully moving the toy out of the way. They were unsure, they were not okay, but enveloped by grief for what was and was not, none of those feelings seemed to matter anyway.

-*-

A volt of electricity woke House up: that was the only way to describe it. He was remained still, waiting for the panic to wrap his body in a relentless grip, but it never happened. House was calm, endlessly, unremittingly, calm – for the first time in years.

"So," Amber said to him, her arms crossed over her chest. "You look good."

House glanced down at himself. Even though he was still wearing a hospital gown, he could clearly see that his skin had a healthy color, his bruises had faded away, and it looked like he had muscle and meat to him… not just old bones. "I agree," House replied, pleased. He paused for thought. "So… I'm dead then?"

"No," Amber said, and shrugged. "You're still very much alive."

House frowned at her but couldn't muster up enough for any other response. He felt great. "But I'm… Amber, we both know that I'm dead."

Amber rolled her eyes at him and laughed. "Nope! I don't get it either," she confessed.

House wasn't moved by that. "It's not uncommon for a patient to show small signs of improvement right before they kick it."

"I'm not going to try and convince you of this. But I'm telling the truth." Amber glanced up and down his body appraisingly, as if searching for something. "You've been dying for over a month now."

House nodded, still relaxed, and waited for Amber to continue.

"And you've barely been in contact with him."

There was no need to identify to 'him' was, because he was the topic of every conversation. Every thought centered around him, every action was a reaction to him, and every emotion traced back to his emotions. Even out of his life, Wilson was inextricably _in_ his life.

Amber looked at House levelly. "Why?"

House pressed his lips together, but it was though someone had suddenly drawn all the air from his lungs and the speech from his mouth. "He deserves it," House said, panting, unable to stop himself. "He deserves to be… not friends with me. Wilson doesn't know what's good for him, he still wants to be my friend. It – he would have been okay if you were okay, but you're not, you're dead." House bent over, his hands on his knees, trying desperately to breathe. But the more he talked, the more air he lost – and yet he couldn't stop.

"He deserves it," House gasped as his vision grew dimmer. "He deserves better."

Amber coldly strode over to him and tilted his chin up so that she was looking House right in the eye. "You're right. Wilson deserves better and if I was still alive, whatever damage you did wouldn't matter because of me – because I taught Wilson to be stronger. But nothing canonizes a lesson like death."

Amber sighed and her anger visibly fell away – and so, it seemed, did everything else. Amber's face was losing its color, her eyes their spark, her body its solidness.

"House," Amber whispered. "Wilson is fighting for what he wants because of me. He deserves what he wants. But what he wants… it's still you."

Amber was becoming less and less real – House couldn't tell if it was because he was passing out or if it was because _she_ was passing out. Amber was fading away and he was fading away – everything was gone – he was so lost, he was so alone – but there it was again – that volt of electricity that seemed to kill every cell inside him –

But without warning, he breathed, and then he was back.

-*-

_One week later_

The glass of water seemed very far away.

House braced himself and lifted up his right arm, which ached in response. The bedside table was off to the side instead of right in front of him, and for a minute, House contemplated rolling over to reach it. He shifted in bed but immediately regretted it as pain shot through his body. He moved back a little bit and groaned.

"Almost dying will do that to you," Wilson said from the doorway. He walked in and handed the cup to House. It was rare to find House alone, without the company of Cameron, Foreman, and Chase... and most frequently, Cuddy.

"Thanks," House said, and took a sip.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, House still struggling to finish his drink. "All of this because of atropine," he finally said.

Wilson leaned back in his chair. "An overdose doesn't reverse renal failure," he reminded House.

"Yeah," House agreed. "I don't know what did it."

Wilson smiled at him. "You've got the rest of your life to figure it out."

But House was still slightly uneasy. "Remind me of the atropine side effects again," he said. He had heard the laundry list dozens of times in the past week, but he was still sure he was missing something.

Wilson rolled his eyes but even though he knew that repeating what he had listed so many times would be pointless in the long run, he also knew that in the face of a medical impossibility, hearing cold facts would provide some strange comfort to House.

"Ok," Wilson said. "Even though you've probably memorized it already. You've got your palpitations, your dilated pupils, your difficulty in swallowing--"

"I think those are all just symptoms of someone who's been dating me."

Wilson smirked at him. "Very funny. Ok, there's hot, dry skin, thirst, dizziness, restlessness, tremor, fatigue and ataxia. In toxic doses, there's also circulatory collapse and depression; blood pressure goes down and then there may be paralysis and coma. Not to mention standard dry mouth, blurred vision, photophobia and tachycardia. Are you happy now?"

House frowned. "No. You forgot constipation and problems with micturition."

"Have you experienced those?"

House shook his head. "Whether I experienced it or not, everything's relevant. What else?"

"Nothing. I mean, there's also the really toxic doses that result in marked palpitation, restlessness and excitement, hallucinations, and delirium, but you weren't given that much." Wilson paused. "House, you have to give it up. You woke up from your coma before we had the chance to even start the treatment. Nothing I have said explains your recovery and nothing anyone can _ever_ say can ever explain the recovery. I know it's not exactly in your nature but at least _try_ and realize that you'll just never know why it happened."

House was very still. It felt like lightning had struck the core of his body. Hallucinations, delirium – Amber hadn't been real. She had been the figment of a desperate, drug-addled mind, and that was that. He knew it wasn't his fault but he still felt a deep, consuming sense of humiliation – one that no one would ever know of.

"House? You still with me?"

House glanced back at Wilson. He thought of his functioning kidneys and his brilliant mind and his beating heart, and his shame faded a little bit. Wilson was right: there was no medical reason that could explain a recovery. But he was, in fact, recovering.

House let it happen.

"Yeah," he assured Wilson. "I'm right here."


End file.
